Of Love and Regret
by theSoundofLiterature
Summary: Hermione and Malfoy are coworkers who have a secret affair that only manifests itself when one of them is drunk. Ultimately they are left to finally confront their demons...together.
1. Chapter 1: A Visitor

"The answer would be King Louis XIV of France."

Hermione sat on her couch with one leg tucked comfortably under the other. She had been running over her notes for the day—wand perched in one hand as she lifted and magically highlighted sections of scrawl. The Telly droned in the background, the voice of the host wafted through her flat as she sucked in a tired breath.

Hermione was quite fond of Brain of Britain. Some of her earliest memories revolved around watching the game with her Mum and Dad over a puzzle. They'd tally scores as if they were actually competing. Before Hogwarts and the realms of magic —there was simplicity in enjoying a game of Jeopardy with her parents. Hermione could never bring herself to get rid of the old Telly from her parents house once the war had ended. She had spent a week going through their belongings —- 7 days worth of time to fret and decide which of their trinkets was worth remembering them by...

Ultimately the Telly had been one of them. Hermione found herself comforted by memories of a world that felt fuzzy at the edges, as if it were a lifetime ago. And as she pushed the idea of a life without her parents to the depths of her mind—she found solace in challenging herself to a game of knowledge that at one time in her life, felt little more than a passing of time.

It was whilst she had been in this trance of sorts that the buzzer rang — forcing her to drop her wand and the parchments in her lap, as she stared dreary eyed and blinking at the television screen. She looked over at the clock mounted on the wall of her living room, frowning at the hour at which this unfortunate individual had decided to disturb her.

She slowly rose from the comfort of her couch and strode over to the intercom in the kitchen to press the call button down to the lobby.

"Hullo?" She bit out sourly.

"Why, don't sound so happy to hear from me."

The voice at the end of the line was biting, almost as sour as her own had been. She bit her lip and pressed her fingers to her temple — hoping to a muggle deity that the voice at the other end of the intercom didn't belong to who she immediately presumed it was.

"Declare yourself."

"Granger, after all these years working together I would think you could at least remember my voice. I'm incredibly offended."

Hermione didn't notice before, but now the slight slur was evident in his tone. It was the way in which his r's strung together in a way evident of heavy drink. She sighed, the headache in her temple growing as she contemplated letting him up to her flat...it wouldn't be the first time, not by a long-shot.

"Draco...you're drunk."

"Indeed. I have relished in the age old art of solitary imbibing madam."

"Madam...? Is that what we're doing now?"

"Maybe, will it afford me entrance into your flat?"

Hermione bit her lip once more, a flurry of emotions began to swirl beneath her chest, suffocating her from the inside out. She had made many mistakes in her life — sleeping with her partner at work was the first. Her partner at work being Draco Malfoy was the second. Re-visiting their secret affair every few weeks or months was the third. And falling for someone she should never want was the fourth.

Hermione pushed the buzzer, allowing him entry to the narrow stairwell up to the flats above. And within a minute there was a soft rapping against her door. Her pulse quickened as she did a mental roving over her appearance. It was Thursday night— a Work night. And as Hermione had not been expecting company, she wore a pair of cotton boy shorts and an old Gryffindor crewneck jumper. Her hair fell in soft wild curls and framed the soft angles of her cheekbones and neck. With age Hermione had managed to master the art of self-grooming, and with that came the discovery that conditioner wasn't just the name of the miscellaneous hair product at the Grocers which lined the shelves that she never frequented.

Her hair never lost its frizz or unruliness, but she had found confidence in its wild nature at some point before the ripe old age of twenty seven, it had over time become a part of her that she loved and cared for. And through this journey of hair discovery came a beautiful confidence that dripped from her aura like warm honey.

She decided that if Malfoy was going to show up drunk at 12:17am, he would be seeing her in all of her tired, annoyed and disheveled glory. She found the lock to the door and opened it to a smirking Malfoy, holding a bottle of wine and two glasses.

His eyes roamed freely over her rumpled figure, taking a moment to settle on the curve of her breasts. "You...look _ravishing_ Granger." He slurred seductively before sauntering gracefully past her into the Kitchen.

"Eyes up here." She scolded. Hermione quickly maneuvered past him to pour two glasses of water from the tap. He stood at the counter quietly observing her. A few moments passed with only the sound of the water running filling the space around them.

"Staring is rude. I'm sure your parents taught you manners." Hermione said, with a bit more bite to her tone than intended. Malfoy shrugged, waving a perfectly manicured hand in the air.

"I was always a bad study. Granger, have you always been a fan of oversized jumpers and little underwear?" Malfoy was either seemingly unaware of Hermione's annoyance, or too drunk to care.

Hermione turned to face him, shoulders both weary and tense at the same time. She eyed him quizzically as she handed over the glass of water and slowly sipped from her own. She sighed, an element of defeat in her tone.

"It's comfortable."

"It suits you." He replied.

Hermione didn't reply. Instead opting to take a moment to observe the drunken Draco Malfoy who had somewhat randomly if not unexpectedly tumbled through her door at midnight. His hair was boyishly tousled, a rarity in itself she mentally noted. And his cheeks were bright with an almost unnoticeable flush from a mixture of the drink and the cold outside. He smiled lazily as he sipped the water she had proffered him. And she realized that falling for him had been stupid if not inevitable. She grumbled at him with a frown.

Hermione was admittedly tired, and they had work early in the morning tomorrow, as much as this was amusing to him— she had no spare time to entertain Malfoy's drunken revelations and next day regrets.

"Listen. I let you up because you should sleep this off, and I'd rather you be somewhere safe than attempting drunken apperition. There's a pullout bed attached to the couch. It's all yours — as for me, I think it's time for bed."

"Granger— Hermione...it's early yet, and I brought you wine." Malfoy held up the still unopened bottle of expensive overpriced wine, and pouted...rather poorly.

"It's 12:32am on a Tuesday. Go to bed Malfoy." And with that...Hermione made her way past him and disappeared down the hallway towards the bedroom. There was the sound of the door opening followed by a soft click. There was a finality to her movements and her tone that had Malfoy questioning the bottle of wine he'd bought her, it was a rare vintage he'd been saving for her to sample. And now, she didn't even want to indulge him! The nerve. Malfoy hiccoughed before wandering from the kitchen to the couch grumbling as he went.

He stumbled over the coffee table rather loudly before managing to magic the pullout bed from under the couch. A few seconds later and he had removed his shirt and trousers to flop himself over the sheets in an undershirt and trunks.

He fell asleep without realizing it. To the sounds of a Muggle game show of sorts. As the voices lulled him to sleep — he smiled drunkenly. The sheets, the couch, the Muggle Telly. It was all so intrinsically Hermione. And in a comfortably drunken stupor, his body relaxed because he felt as if he was home.


	2. Chapter 2: An Olive Branch

Hermione found herself staring wide-eyed at the ceiling fan of her bedroom, quietly contemplating all of the events of the night. She had never considered herself a woman of such little value to pine after a man who obviously wanted so little of her. But with the fallout of her relationship with Ron, her life had taken a solemn and lonely turn somewhere around twenty three.

 _ **Five Years Prior**_  
She had a successful job working for the Ministry of Magic in the Department for International Cooperation - focusing specifically on International Diplomacy and aid ventures for countries with lower Wizarding populations, and unstructured policies in the realms of magical law. In the early years she traveled frequently, often for weeks at a time - a rather humble reprieve from the lonely bitterness of her failed venture of love and happiness with Ronald. For every week that she was gone, it was one less chip in shattered clay pot she once called her heart.

It was on a particularly grueling trip to Johannesburg that she had inevitably come to realize the true depth of despair she had so meticulously been avoiding. It had been 8 years since the end of the apartheid, and 6 months since the end of her engagement to Ron. The South African magical government was struggling more than ever to both accrue capital _and_ manage their recently integrated and growing magical community. Wizards descendant from the early Belgian settlers had a much more antiquated idealism for how their government should operate. All of the conflicting views had done nothing for the economical progression of the community — which is how the Ministry of Magic came to be involved.

Hermione had been stationed primarily in Johannesburg, a mere 3 kilometers from _Grijs Lèige_ the magical community there. She had been provided a small room at a local inn, with an armoire, a bed and a desk. And every morning she'd dress smartly and walk the 3 kilos to a ministry approved apparition point — immediately finding herself surrounded by the local wizards and witches of Grijs Lèige as she walked determinedly to the Bureau of Magical Affairs. She'd stalked up the marble steps at least a dozen times before during her stay. Yet as she reached the main doors, the collected frame of the man at the large entrance was one she hadn't seen in the flesh since the battle of Hogwarts. He hadn't spotted her yet, and Hermione could do nothing but stare as her pulse quickened with unease.

There was stubble on his face she'd noted. On most men Hermione felt it unprofessional to be anything other than clean shaven and or neatly trimmed. And yet somehow he pulled it off. His platinum hair sported a never before seen short and shaven cut with longer parted and combed fringe at the top. He was dressed in a steel grey suit that accentuated the grey of his eyes. Despite her approval of his attire, the way his lips set in a hard line was the only reminder she needed to brace herself for the inevitable deluge of berating words that were sure to pour from his lips like honey laced poison. Her shoulders stiffened as she braced herself—walking now with purpose, and a hope that he wouldn't see her as she snuck past the entrance way. Why was he here? She wondered with incredulous ire crackling beneath the surface of her skin.

"Hermione! Good Morning." She cringed inwardly as she turned to look behind her down the steps. Ewan Collings waved happily at her as he pulled a bagel from his lips. While on most days Hermione appreciated the South African Bureau's Assistant Treasurer's kind hearted ways during government meetings and treasury inquiries...today was not one of those days.

She smiled at him nervously. Moments later she felt the cool presence of a familiar if not unwanted body as none other than Draco Malfoy came down the steps to stand beside her.

"Fancy seeing you here Granger." He drawled, little amusement in his tone.

"Why are you here? Only Ministry approved officials have been granted entry into the South African Bureau's wards of jurisdiction. And last I remember, you were no more than a freed war criminal."

"Rather harsh, even for you." He replied, lips pressed in a hard line as Ewan approached the two of them happily.

"Ah, you must be Mr. Malfoy! Pleasure!" Ewan dusted his buttery hands on the side of his slacks before extending a hand in Malfoy's direction. Hermione watched in surprise at the exchange, not at all surprised however at Malfoy's curt nod as he pocketed his hands deep into the pockets of his suit pants rather than shake the mans hand in return.

"Ah well...there'll be more time to acquaint ourselves surely." Evan rambled. Hermione barely had a moment to gather her thoughts before they were pressing at the forefront of her mind with blinding clarity. She stared inquisitively at Ewan— the man knew something she surely did not, and it was beginning to give her a rather unpleasant tension headache.

"I apologize Ewan, but you were expecting Mal — I mean Mr. Malfoy?" She asked rather curtly.

"Granger you aren't the only Ministry Official who's been granted access for this project. My approval just so happened to be rather delayed — international jurisdictions and all. I'm sure you understand." Gone was the usual scathing cadence of his voice, replaced by drawling impatience. Hermione's eyes blazed with the million questions biting her tongue.

"Right." Hermione responded. Her blood was beginning to boil.

"Oh yes! Mr. Malfoy was brought on as a financial consultant by the Ministry some weeks ago. He's to be assisting our project, specifically with the Department of the Treasury." Ewan beamed again, and Hermione wanted to the hex the enthusiasm out of him —Malfoy was not one to be enthusiastic, Ewan would surely learn in time.

"This has been rather enjoyable but I was brought here for a job. Shall we begin?" Ewan nodded aggressively as he lead Malfoy up the steps toward the atrium. Hermione followed sluggishly behind.

The day had been a blur. And Hermione had accomplished little as all she could concentrate on was the fact that Draco Malfoy had suddenly appeared and was her new co-worker. Within a matter of hours her world had been turned completely upside down.

By the end of the day, she was exhausted. She collected her things and headed out of the Bureau with nothing on her mind but to write her Department Head about the lack of communication on their end about the Ministry's new financial consultant. She'd just reached the block where the inn was located when she heard her name being called behind her. An uneasy sense of Deja Vu overcame her as she turned.

"Granger...Hermione I mean." Malfoy was a bit out of breath. Not in an unfit way, but in a way that suggested he'd been attempting to catch up to her for some time. She eyed him apprehensively.

"I just. I'm aware that my arrival wasn't expected. It was rather short notice." The familiar drawl was gone. And his eyes held a bit of something foreign to her. Curiosity maybe?...a wild notion.

"It is not your job to notify Ministry Officials of changing plans and/or projects. That is not your burden to bear." She sighed miserably, clenching the bridge of her nose.

"No it isn't. But I apologize all the same." Hermione looked at him then, gone were the pointed cold angles of his features. Replaced with full lines and and angles that suited him rather well. His eyes weren't cold but searching. She nodded curtly.

"You can say no, but as we'll be stuck here for another three weeks as partners. How would you fancy a beer?" Hermione had been shocked by his question. Who was this man? He was clearly not at all the boy she once knew in her adolescence. She was wary, and a voice in her head screamed at her to say no. But something about his eyes had her nodding curiously at him. And ten minutes later she'd unexpectedly found herself seated aside him at a local bar, beers in hand as they caught up. His eyes sparkling as they reminisced over years past and loved ones lost.

Five years later and Malfoy had somehow managed to weasel his way into her affections. Nothing more, nothing less. That first work trip was difficult but the olive branch he'd extended could not have been denied. Next it was a month long stint in Peru where he dazzled the locals with his incredible Spanish, and his knowledge of muggle fútbol. The more time Hermione spent around him the less she hated the idea of tolerating him. And then they'd returned to London and he'd become as elusive as he'd been before his reappearance into her life.

They were...sort of _friends_ suddenly but not so suddenly at all. And by the four year mark it was a trip to the jungles of Costa Rica. A drunken night trapped in a torrential downpour in wizarding San Jose, that she made the biggest mistake of her life after obliviating her parents. She kissed him.

It was hot and wet and blood boiling all at the same time. One kiss in Costa Rica, turned into two more 6 months later in New York. By the time the new year rolled around on her twenty seventh year she knew she was in over her head.

They were on hiatus now for 4 weeks before leaving on a trip to Cuba. And Hermione cherished the rare elusive moments of comfort in her flat, boy shorts and all. She sighed heavily as she now turned in bed, closing her eyes finally as the tension of the night escaped her. She thought of the drunken man currently outstretched on her pullout sofa and smiled. As much as she didn't want to admit it, she'd missed his company.


	3. Chapter 3: A Full English

The sound of pans rattling around in the kitchen had woken Draco out of his drunken slumber. He squinted at the light that blinded him through the open curtains of the window. His head began a dull pounding in time with his pulse just as he regained full consciousness. He could hear Hermione stomping around as she opened and shut cabinets rather loudly. It _was_ her flat, he thought. She could do as she pleased - but the incessant banging was doing absolutely nothing for his mounting headache.

"Granger!" No response from the brown haired witch. Draco sat up quickly, pulling off his undershirt as he did so. He was hot and irritable and in need of food and a shower.

"Hermione!" Again, no answer. He slowly pulled himself to his feet, rumpled shirt in hand, and made his way towards the kitchen in nothing but his trunks. His hair was tousled, and there was a scowl on his face that could have rivaled even Professor Snape's. When he reached the Kitchen, he paused - taking a moment to lean his body against the door-frame and cross his arms over his chest. His cool grey eyes watched calculatingly as Hermione chopped tomatoes and mushrooms by hand as potatoes crackled temptingly on the stove. Hermione focused intently on throwing the veggies into a griddle as two eggs magicked their way out of the fridge and cracked themselves in the pan. Beans bubbled in a small pot - it smelled _heavenly_.

"Smells absolutely divine."

Hermione jumped. She turned quickly and put her hand on her chest to calm her breathing. Draco took the moment to appreciate the way the Gryffindor crewneck sweater fell off of her left shoulder to expose several freckles. His eyes danced in amusement, his lips maintained only traces of a smirk.

"You shouldn't scare people like that you know." Her words wore cold and accusatory, yet they fell on deaf ears — Hermione should have hexed him, instead the ire swirling in her irises transformed into burning darkness as her eyes rolled over the just noticed bare ness of his frame. Malfoy couldn't help but notice the way her brown eyes lingered on his chest, working their way down to the blonde hairs traveling down from his navel towards his trunks. He lifted his eyebrows at her as she studied him. A blush crept up her cheeks as her eyes came back up to focus on his again. She cleared her throat haughtily and waved her hand impatiently in the direction of the kettle.

"There's tea. And the food's almost ready if you're hungry. Plates are in the cupboard to your left." Malfoy's smirk was in full bloom as he passed behind her as she cooked, her neck and cheeks were in a full out flush. He lingered to the right of her shoulder and leant over to smell the contents of the current skillet she was stirring. He could almost see the way her pulse quickened at his proximity. Before she could yell at him again, he stepped away—onward towards the kettle in the corner.

There was silence between them as Draco watched Hermione, and she finished cooking. He marveled at the way that she had so eloquently merged the art of both Muggle and Wizarding culinary technique. He watched her flip eggs and perform wandless magic to stir the beans all without missing a beat. She absently turned her neck up toward a cabinet and Malfoy took that as his cue to grab two plates. He set the dishware on the small kitchen table and then proceeded to grab silverware out of one of the drawers. Within a few minutes Hermione had plated their food and both of them settled quietly at the table across from one another.

"Can't bother to put a shirt on before sitting at the table? Odd...I thought pure bloods were meant to have manners." There was annoyance in her voice, and Malfoy only smirked at her — his cool grey eyes honing in to her amber ones.

"It seemed you quite liked the view. Just doing my civil service, Granger. How else could I have repaid you for this amazing breakfast if not in hard pecs and washboard abs?" She actually scoffed. Her lips set into a hard line as she narrowed her eyes at him dangerously. She lifted a fork and pointed it at him menacingly from across the table, and with every syllable she spoke next, her fork acted as the punctuation.

"How conceited could you possibly be!? It's unattractive, and will grant you a one way ticket out of my good graces faster than you can say Hogwarts." The smirk left Malfoy's lips rather quickly, and he shifted in his seat to regard her with actual sincerity. He sighed before staring down at his plate and lifting an impressed eyebrow at the spread that had been set before him.

"Impressive." She scowled at him over a bite of toast. Malfoy took that as his cue to continue.

"What do you call this?" He forked a piece of sausage into his mouth and hummed after biting off a huge chunk of it. Clearly hoping to win back her favor by devouring the food before him — his eyes closed as he reveled in the greasy perfection of the bangers and toast.

"A Full English."

"A Full English what?" His lips wrapped rather graciously around a forkful of eggs and beans. He licked his lips before bowing his head to devour more.

"Just...a _Full English_ Breakfast. Standard Muggle fare — good hangover cure too. Seemed you may need one after last night."Malfoy grunted as he inhaled more of his beans and toast.

"This is one thing that Muggles definitely do well."

Hermione's eyebrows rose in curiosity as she toyed with a forkful of eggs.

"You mean, as a full on Brit, you've never experienced the greasy magic of a proper fry-up? How un-English could you be?" Malfoy laughed — actually laughed at that and took a hearty gulp of his tea.

"As my family can trace their roots back to the era of William the Conqueror and Normandy. It should come as no surprise that our way of life, etiquette and... _cuisine_...leant more on the lavish and unequivocally French side."Hermione raised a singular eyebrow in question at the admonition.

"So basically we ate lots of croissants, fruit, cheese and tea...lots of tea."

"Well obviously you've missed out on the pride of and joy of England gastronomy, renowned and celebrated the world over." There was the hint of a smile on her lips as she spoke.

"Better late than never." Malfoy tilted his lips into a grin and decidedly took that as his cue to continue eating his fill - it didn't take long as it was all rather delicious. And quite truthfully he could already feel his headache dissipating as he sipped on his tea. He twiddled his fork between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand as he regarded his surroundings with an air of faint curiosity. After moments of silence, he turned back to Hermione who had stopped eating to regard him in much the same fashion. He felt his cheeks get hot with all of the things that they've never said to one another — and he felt his chest tighten as he truly considered her. He opened his mouth to speak but thought against it, only to open it again a moment later.

"Thank you...for breakfast."

"It was no trouble." She responded, almost carefully as she tapped the edges of her plate with delicate fingers.

"Feel free to invite me over whenever you're cooking." Hermione chuckled dryly as she stared at the whites of her pale knuckles. "Duly noted."

"And...thank you for not turning me to the wolves last night." At this admonition Hermione stilled. Malfoy watched as she sighed nervously, her brown eyes settling on the unopened Bordeaux still sitting on the counter, the two wine glasses untouched. There is static between them as they stare at one another in thick silence. When Hermione finally opens her mouth to speak — her voice is heavy and intrusive.

"Why did you come?" When she turned to look at him her eyes burned with an endless sea of questions that she needed the answers to just as much as she didn't want to be there to hear them. Because they'd been balancing on the precipice of a high edifice for several years now — both of them having prevented the plunging toward their death by stilling their tongues and trying to forget _everything_.

But ever since the day that Draco had arrived to Johannesburg only to come face to face with the witch who would be his compatriot for the coming weeks — he realized falling for her, was always inevitable. And yet she was as unattainable as smoke and vapors. There was never a day after that first reconnection in South Africa, where Draco didn't think of her. But instead he always blamed it on the swirl of rum or cognac that always seemed to foreshadow their midnight rendezvous'. And in the morning he'd put on a smile and bury the screaming of his heart for another bottle — another time. What they had was easy. No sense ruining it by asking questions.

"To share wine of course. Why else?" Draco shrugged with as much indifference as he could muster. Her eyes, turned distant and cold as she watched him.

"That's not what I meant."

"So what did you mean then?"

"I— you almost _never_ visit during hiatus. We — I've come to accept the fact that you only call on me when we're halfway around the world..." She stopped on a sigh and swallowed. Malfoy hung onto every word as she continued.

"You kiss me, or... _more_ when there's nothing else to attract your attention. I'm no less to blame than you are because I continuously allow it. Everything about you and me is forbidden and unspoken. And I can't help but feel uneasy with you sitting here at my kitchen table, half naked, no longer drunk, and not attempting to get into my knickers."

Malfoy's jaw set precariously into a hard angular line and his eyes go a stormy grey as he considered an answer that would give nothing important away. "I like your company. Exponentially more so after a good drink."

The sadness in her eyes was unmistakable in the late morning light. And Draco knew at once that's he'd said the wrong thing. Her jaw had gone rigid and her knuckles white, as she gripped the edge of the table. If not for her eyes, he would have mistaken her change in demeanor as nothing more than ire. Draco watched as she rose from her seat and waved a hand across the kitchen to clear away their dishes. She _accio'd_ his belongings with a flick of her wand. His shoes, clothes, and the bottle of vintage Bordeaux all waiting for him in suspense at the door — suspended in curious agony.

"Granger..." He mumbled, rising from his seat with slow trepidation. "I didn't mean it like that." He swallowed again — his gaze following her brown eyes as she wiped a hand to angrily swipe an insubordinate tear before it dared to fall from her lashes.

"I want you to leave."

" _Granger."_

 _"_ Leave, Draco!" And it's the anger in her voice that startled him. It rocked him back on his heels with a force he hadn't been expecting. He hastily made his way to the door. It opened before he could grab the knob, and all at once his belongings were magically thrust into the hallway and the door slammed in his wide eyed face.

He reached for the Bordeaux and palmed the bottle wordlessly. It was a rare find. He'd been hiding it in the back of his cellar for months now — wondering if he should muster the courage to give it to its intended recipient. A South African De Toren V 2003 vintage, a reminder of the beginning of it all. With all of the might in the world he hurled it from his shaking hands and watched it shatter against the wall on the opposite end of the hallway. The fermented grape juice running jagged red patterns across the white of the wall — Draco could feel the pounding of his heart in his ears. A door opened just to the right of the shattered bottle and a man stuck out his angry head.

"Oy! I'm calling the police if you don't sod off!"

Malfoy's lips set into a deadly scowl. "Don't worry, I was just leaving."

He grabbed his things not caring to dress himself, and barreled down the stairs. Upon reaching the landing he turned — after not seeing a Muggle in sight — he finally disapperated with a loud _pop._


	4. Chapter 4: A Drunkard

Hermione stared at the white door of her flat for longer than she had intended after throwing Draco Malfoy out. It took several minutes, and all of a sudden she found herself deflating, allowing her body to fall back into the chair she had occupied during breakfast. She looked down at her plate, and sighed - pinching the bridge of her nose as her eyebrows scrunched together in irritation, frustration, and defeat.

A huge part of her still yearned for acceptance from him - for him to finally admit that the space between them was more than just static. That everything he had lived his life believing before the war was nothing compared to his feelings for the muggle born witch with whom he'd quite unexpectedly fell in love. She'd finally come to realize just how naive she's been - and Hermione isn't one to take that lightly. Because _how dare he?_

He'd been the only man that she'd slept with since Ronald, and that meant something didn't it?

She deflated and stared into the stillness of her now lukewarm tea. Her sad eyes lifted to the empty chair across from her, his plate still sat the way he'd left it, dirty and used — his cuppa only partially drunk like hers. Had she not just kicked him out, it would look as though her apartment was thoroughly lived in, comfortable. And yet all of these things that he'd touched and infiltrated hung heavy and ubiquitous in the air like commas. The rumpled blankets on the pullout couch, the two tall stem wine glasses still sitting on the counter. She sighed — the sound was heavy, and the heaviness of her sorrow sank deeply into her chest. She pulled a hand to her mouth as an errant sob escaped her lips. The tightness in her chest deepened and before she could stop it, the deluge began, swallowing her whole.

 **10 Hours Before...**

Draco sat in his familiar barstool at the local pub near his loft. The Telly ambled in the background, playing replays of the football match from the night before. The Muggles watched and cheered along whilst their beers sloshed in their grips. Draco enjoyed coming to this bar, it was not too far from his flat and far enough from Wizarding London to remain inconspicuous. After the war, loneliness had sunk into his bones like a plague - if he wasn't hated by name or status alone he was excommunicated by pure blood families that deemed him traitorous. It left him ambitious, but loathe to maintaining relationships because _what_ _was_ _the_ _point?_

He felt confident in his aptitude, and although he'd never admit it, he was thankful for a job with the _Ministry_ for bollocks sake. The very institution that striped his father of everything — had given him an opportunity within their International department. He quite enjoyed the work even...and then... _Hermione Granger_ happened _._

Draco scoffed into his pint in incredulity at the thought. The bartender eyed him curiously over the counter. Draco grimaced, following up the thought with another sip of his beer.

He'd never expected Granger to grow up...of course he had too...but she was different. Gone were the beaver teeth of second year and the mountainous rats nest she called hair. Upon seeing her that day in South Africa at the top of the stairs...he can remember the way the sun hit the bounce of her auburn hair, the stretch of her calf muscles as they spun. Her body a shapely oil masterpiece where he had once seen youthful imperfection. She was beautiful...and it angered him...because how could she? It was as if the muggle deities themselves had orchestrated it, a joke for them to revel within, his misfortune their abundant hilarity. The pure blood prince of the Malfoy lineage — besotted with the smartest and most well known muggle-born of the 20th century. There would be stories written of her courage, songs sung of her many adventures - and he would be nothing if not a villain in the shadows of all of them - nothing but a dark punctuation within the brilliance of her life.

The cruelest joke there ever was.

Draco tipped his glass to swallow the last of its contents, he knocked the bar to signal for the next round. It was on nights like this, when his loneliness overcame him, that he sought her out. Her with her brightness and soft curves —was the only thing in his life that blocked out the darkness. He could barely admit to himself that he loved her while drunk, but it was there in the background. Folded neatly and compartmentalized behind sturdy walls and reinforcements — unfortunately alcohol was kryptonite to even the highest skilled occlumens.

He was soon on beer number 3. The football reruns on the Telly had begun to look rather intriguing. He walked over to the Muggle group of onlookers and joined in their revelry. They toasted to his arrival with shots for the table - Malfoy obliged. And by the end of the night he'd become properly sloshed and all he longed for was Grangers bed and her soft body pressed against his own. He stumbled out of the bar and apparated to the Manor — he no longer lived there but it was his in title and name. The elves maintained it in his absence. The cellar was damp and smelled of oak, he stumbled along the racks of wine, in search for a most important bottle.

 _"Pop"._

Malfoy blinked, too drunk to react. A small elf stood before him, his eyes wide.

"Master Draco, sir. You needs to rest."

"What is your name?" Draco realized his words slurred a bit but it was of no importance to him. The small elf blinked nervously. "My name is Pip Master Draco."

"Ah, be a good lad Pip and fetch me that bottle over there, the 2003."

Pip followed his Masters line of sight and retrieved the bottled Bordeaux. Malfoy hiccoughed and nodded, he looked once again at Pip and grimaced. "This is between you and me, Pip." Pip nodded, and with a pop of his own, his Master had gone.


End file.
